Intervals In Broken Time
by A.J. Breton
Summary: GSR angst. Grissom is left reeling from a personal tragedy. Can Sara help put him back together? Can he forgive himself for what he can not fix? Mature rating for a few dark scenes, language and sexual situations. Ch.6 ADDED
1. Chapter 1: The Last Nicest Thing

**Intervals In Broken Time**

A.J. Breton

GSR-angst. Grissom is left reeling from a personal tragedy. Can Sara help put him back together? Can he forgive himself for what he can not fix? Mature rating for a few dark scenes, language and sexual situations.

Disclaimer: you got it, they ain't mine, nor do I profit from the misdeeds described below.

A/N: This is my very first CSI fan-fic. Feedback is welcome, don't ask me where this is going, because I'm not really sure.

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**Chapter 1: The Last Nicest Thing I'll Ever Feel...**

Catherine's cell vibrated on the clip at her side, unfortunately her hands were full at the moment. She juggled the blood swabs and evidence bags while the phone kept shaking on her hip, finally she got to it, and snapped it open.

"Willows."

"It's me."

"Gil, kinda early for you isn't it?"

It was late evening and her swing shift was hammered. She got ready to hear Gil say he was coming in early, taking over some of her cases. Her mind was already trying to formulate a response that would let him take some of the burden from her while still sounding like she was annoyed with him. She thought she knew what she was going to say, until Grissom spoke again.

"I need you to take over Graveyard tonight."

Alarm bells started clashing in Catherine's head. Gil didn't give up a shift for anything.

"Are you alright?" She heard him sigh.

"I have to go to California."

Cath's heart sank. Cali on short notice? That probably meant one thing.

"Is your mom alright?" Another sigh on the other end of the phone.

"Yeah, she's fine. I got a call from a hospital, my dad is dying."

----

"Where's Gris?"

Catherine decided to ignore the obvious annoyance in Sara's voice.

"Gris is in California, I'm taking over Graveyard until he gets back." Anticipating the obvious question she continued, "Apparently his father is in the hospital." She watched as the news sunk in.

By this time the combined Swing-Graveyard shift had all congregated in the break room, and soft chatter about Grissom's dad floated between the friends.

---

12 Hours later:

His breath was hot and stank of stale whiskey. He was much bigger than the crying little girl he had pinned by the shoulders and slapped her again, harder than before.

"Damn it, why can't you ever be quiet?" His voice was a harsh whisper.

The girl kept crying. "Shhh. Quiet. My girl, my girl, S-sara." He kept slapping while he thrust against her, into her again and again, the change in his pants pockets jingling around his ankles.

The scream ripped out of Sara's throat and she bolted out of bed. In a moment she went from sleep to running, and it wasn't until her legs hit the couch and she fell onto it in a sprawl that she truly realized she was awake. She clutched the cushions of the couch, sobbing and panting. Leo D'Ortell had been one of her foster fathers many, many years ago, he demanded all the girls in the house only call him daddy, the boys called him sir. That sick fuck would make the rounds every night. When Sara was new to the house he'd spend extra time with her, making her his girl, as he'd said.

Sara pulled herself up into a sitting position on the couch and angrily wiped away the burning tears. That asshole wasn't worth this, he wasn't worth the anger and having nightmares over. Still she sat, and still the tears rolled. Suddenly her tiny apartment felt cavernous. Feeling like she might be swallowed up by the silence she grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned the TV on. Some asinine reality show flashed across the screen. Sara didn't really watch TV, but now she just need to hear a human voice, any voice, saying anything, it didn't matter what. She curled up on seat still hugging the cushion, desperately wishing it was someone…

---

The hotel room was entirely too small. Gil felt caged, trapped by the incredibly gaudy wallpaper and matching carpets and bedspread. He'd spent the last 3 hours in the bar across the street knocking back shots of whatever it was the bartender put in front of him and bottles of too-light watery domestic beer.

Gil stood in the middle of the room and glared at the walls, willing them to move outward, to give him some room. He was a bit scared when it appeared the walls did move, but only groaned as they started spinning around him. He closed his eyes, but the spinning sensation only intensified. Doubled over he breathed deeply, demanding his body not to pass out. Damn he hated being drunk, it never ended well with him. Just another damn thing he didn't do well.

"Damn it!" He yelled at the floor before slowly standing again. He teetered toward the tiny bathroom and turned on the cold water in the sink. He splashed handful after handful on his face, but his skin felt numb. He looked up into his eyes reflected in the mirror. An old, drunken man glared back at him. Christ, I look a lot like my father, he thought. He smacked the mirror with his palm, hard enough to make it sting. He didn't care. It was too quiet here, he needed some noise, he needed to hear someone say something.

----

When the ringing cell phone woke Sara, it took her a moment to remember why she wasn't in bed. The TV still flickered, but now it was an infomercial. She stood up, groggy and a little off balance she tottered to her desk where her cell phone chirped. Looking at the caller ID before opening it, she was surprised at the name there, and squinted her eyes at it to make sure it was really who she thought it was.

Grissom, G. Sure enough, that's what it said. She flipped it open and put it to her ear.

"S-ssarara…" The ID had to be wrong, that couldn't be Grissom's voice.

"Sara? Damn it, S-ssara?"

"Grissom? Is that you? What's wrong?" She was fully awake now something terrible must have happened for Gris to sound that wretched.

"I-I just needed….uh…I…ahh…just wanted to call you…" he was rambling and slurring at the same time.

"Are you drunk?" Sara was incredulous.

"NO! I m-mean, not really. I just needed…just wanted to hearyourvoice…" the words started running together. Sara's mind was racing. Where was he? Why was he drunk? Since when did Grissom get drunk? Since when did he want to hear her voice?

"Grissom? Are you still in California?" There was a pause.

"Yeah." At least it was hard to slur a one-word answer.

"Where at?"

"In my hotel…room." Sara sighed, she'd meant what city, not his exact location. He kept talking, breathing heavily into the receiver. God, she thought, he must be shit-faced.

"M-my dad died to-today." Sara's skin went cold. That's why he was drunk.

"Gris, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," his voice had that bitter edge of an angry drunk Sara had heard too many times before, "that sumofabitch never felt ssssorry for me. Before today I hadn't seen him in forty-five years. Forty-five years, Sara!" Sara just stood in her apartment listening to the growing rant. "He left when I was five. Why should I care if he's dead? He's a damn stranger to me!" She heard something break in the background. Something glass.

"Gris, are you alright?"

"They told me he was p-pobably going to die, I should of said, 'good, let the bastard croak,' but no, I jump in my God-damned car and speed all the fucking way out to California, just so I can get the fucking hospital," she heard him suck in a big breath, "just so they can tell me he died ten minutes before I got there! Ten-minutes! I don't see my father in forty-five years and he dies ten fucking minutes before I get there!" He was practically screaming now. Sara had to hold the phone away from her ear. Her heart ached for him, in a strange way she knew what he was feeling. After her father was killed, in spite of everything he had done to her, she had felt sad about his death. She'd spent years hating herself for not hating her father more. She realized the phone had gone silent.

"Gris? Gris, are you still there?"

"Yeah, damn it." He was much quieter now. "Ten fucking minutes, Sara." His voice was resigned now.

"I know. I'm sorry, Grissom, really. I wish I knew what to say."

"Yeah. Me too."

There was a long silence, Sara listened to his breathing, it was slowing down. She wondered if his outburst had sobered him up any. After a few moments longer she broke the quiet.

"When are you coming back to Vegas?"

"Mmm? Uhh, tomorrow. I need some sleep."

"That's a good idea. I'll let you go, you get some rest, and we'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah. Sara?"

"What?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For being my girl." With that the phone disconnected.

What? 'My girl.' What the hell did that mean? Sara stood looking at her phone as if she could find the answer on its touchpad. She didn't like cutesy endearments or sweet nicknames, most of the common ones were connected to bad memories, she certainly never expected to hear one come from the mouth of Gil Grissom.

He's drunk, she thought, in a couple hours he'll forget he ever even said it. She flipped of the TV on her way back to her bedroom. She slid between the covers and closed her eyes, only to open them again a few minutes later.

My girl.


	2. Chapter 2: I Prayed that He would finish

**Intervals In Broken Time**

A.J. Breton

GSR-angst. Grissom is left reeling from a personal tragedy. Can Sara help put him back together? Can he forgive himself for what he can not fix? Mature rating for a few dark scenes, language and sexual situations.

Disclaimer: you got it, they ain't mine, nor do I profit from the misdeeds described below.

A/N: It's not getting any less dark, I promise there will be some action in upcoming chapters. Thank you to the reviewers, I do love the attention.

Chapter title from Roberta Flak's song "Killing me Softly"

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**Chapter 2: I prayed that he would finish, but he just kept right on…**

The Next Day:

Grissom had not come to work that shift. Sara told the others about the call, actually she only mentioned the part about his father dying, leaving out the drunken rage part. Catherine had been a bit miffed that she wasn't the one called. Sara side-stepped any further questions about the conversation. Catherine, in her typical motherly style, had declared in the locker room that the others should not call Griss, they should let him have his room. But Sara had heard Cath leaving messages when she thought she was alone in lab.

"Grissom, call me back, let me know you're alright."

Sara had dialed Grissom's number, too. Only to hang up as soon as she heard it rang.

Dawn was breaking and Sara stifled a yawn. Sleep had been fleeting after Grissom's call and marred by bizarre nightmares rooted in memory and fantasy. Grissom had made an appearance in a few of them. Her nightmares tended to come in spurts. She could go several weeks without a single bad dream, only to be suddenly plagued by vicious nightmares night after night for days on end.

She finished her paperwork and filed it away. She was too physically tired to work out, as she often did after shift. She took comfort knowing there was an almost full bottle of vodka in her apartment. If the nightmares got too bad, she knew how to make them go away. She hated the peace that thought brought her. She'd come a long way in identifying some of her many issues, even started to deal with some of them in a constructive manner. Alcohol seemed like the old standby, the wobbly crutch she always leaned on when she was feeling emotionally crippled.

She slid her sunglasses on as she exited the building. In minutes she was at her apartment, stripping off her clothes as soon as the door latched shut behind her. She stepped into the shower, hoping to find relaxation under a pounding stream of hot water.

-----

The water from the shower was hot and flowed in heavy steaming streams down her back. Sara rinsed and swayed under the water softly singing a tune to herself. Gil watched. He could actually see her pretty clearly through the steamed shower door, not much detail but that he left to his imagination. His eyes caressed the form in the shower thinking of the graceful curve of her neck sloping into soft shoulders, supple breasts caressed by rivulets of water…oh how he wished he could be water, sliding over every inch of her body.

All too soon the shower was over and Gil stepped back out of the doorway keeping in the darkness of the unlit bedroom as Sara stepped out and began drying herself, humming softly. She had a beautiful voice.

She turned away and bent back down into the shower again, perhaps to clear the drain, this was the moment. Gil slid quietly into the bathroom and stood behind her, inches away. Sara stood. He could smell the fragrant soap on her warm, moist skin, honeysuckle. Before she could turn back around, before she could make any further move, Gil was swift. He thrust his left arm around her neck, jerking her head up and to the side. Sara's hands flew upward and nails dug into his arm. She took a great gasp of air for a scream, but only a choking noise emerged as Gil drew the blade of his knife across her neck, deep, in one swift motion just as he had rehearsed in his mind. She immediately collapsed, sliding down his body into a heap on the white tiled floor. Blood had run down in streams across her chest to her abdomen, splatter stood out starkly against the shower door and on the walls of the shower, already mingling with the water and streaking down in silent witness to Gil Grissom as he bent over his girl Sara one last time.

"You should never have left me."

Grissom sat upright gasping for breath. The image of a bloodied Sara collapsed on a white tiled floor still burned into his mind. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was home, in Vegas, on the couch in the living room of his townhouse. Looking at the clock on his stereo he saw it was midday.

He stood and took the short walk to his kitchen. He grabbed a glass from the sink and filled it with water, hurriedly pouring it down his throat, gulping like a man dying in the desert. He refilled and emptied the glass twice more, until it felt like his stomach might burst before putting the cold glass back down again.

Damn that dream. It came to him every now and then, when he was overly tired or stressed about something. He'd never seen Sara naked, except for in that dream. He'd never been so close he could smell the scent of her skin, except for in that dream. That case, with Debbie Marlin killed in her bathroom, had gotten under his skin. Every time he turned around in that dead girl's house, he saw Sara there. Every story he heard about the victim's lovers and their escapades, he'd thought about Sara writhing and sweating on that bed. And when he'd finally connected the crime to Dr. Lurie, he'd seen himself. As their prime suspect had walked away Gil saw himself walking away from his own desires. That could be me. If she ever left me… I can't take the risk, better to not let it come to that at all.

In that moment, in his kitchen, he wanted her. God what he would give to have Sara in his house right now. He closed his eyes and mentally shook himself. There was only pain down that road, pain for both of them. He turned around and looked at the open plan of his townhouse, as if seeing for the first time. This was him. Plain and empty. No warmth, the only color coming from dead butterflies encased in glass on the walls. This was him. Dead things and silence. He sighed softly and tried to put the day in order in his head.

He had gotten home early that morning, leaving his hotel in California after only a few hours of fitful sleep. His clothes still reeked of the bar he'd gotten drunk in. When he came home he collapsed on the couch, only now did he realize just how much time had passed. He missed an entire shift. He groaned when he thought about how many messages he must have.

Wobbling over to the end table by the couch, he picked up his cell. Eighteen messages. He scrolled down the list. The majority were from Catherine, two from Nick, one from Doc Robbins, and one from Ecklie. Ecklie? Probably chewing him out for not checking in. Grissom pressed a few buttons and deleted the messages without listening to them. He'd talk to them tonight at work. Right now he didn't feel like talking. He needed a shower. He got halfway down the hall when his phone rang. He almost answered his cell instinctively, but stopped himself, it was his home phone ringing. He considered ignoring it, but in spite of himself picked up the receiver.

"Grissom."

"Hey, Griss, it's Sara."

-----

40 Years Earlier:

"Mom, please don't send me. I don't like Uncle Danny, he smells bad and has yellow teeth."

"Gilbert, don't dare say such a thing about your Uncle." Her hands were fast, signing to the boy, he knew the body language, she was upset with him.

Ever since the neighbor lady had caught him cutting open the corpse of that dead dog with his pocket knife, 10 year-old Gilbert had been under constant supervision. He didn't know why. The dog was dead, it didn't feel pain. Gilbert just wanted to see what the insides looked like. He cut open fish after catching them, what was different about this? He wanted to know if a dog's insides were like a fish's insides. But apparently what he'd done was wrong, and this just seemed like punishment, though his mother insisted it was not.

After being told what Gilbert had done, his mother had fussed over him, and through letters had made arrangements to send her son to the northern part of the state for the summer, to spend time with his gnarled-toothed, laughs-too-loud, hugs-too-tight, Uncle Danny. It will be good for you, his mother had explained, to live with a man's influence for awhile. Gilbert couldn't comprehend why that was important. But he accepted that if his mother said it was important, then it was. Which only lead to one question.

"Why can't I stay with father?"

The boy knew that the question hurt his mother, and he immediately was racked with guilt for asking it. His mother never answered it, only continuing to pack her son's things. His mother was a fair woman, she wouldn't send him anywhere that wasn't safe, anywhere he didn't belong. Two weeks later when Uncle Danny started coming into Gilbert's room in the middle of the night, whispering, undressing, touching…this was punishment, he must have deserved this.

-----

Back in the moment:

What ever had possessed Sara Sidle to call Grissom's home phone number was beyond her. But she had. Even more surprisingly, he'd answered. The conversation had been brief and awkward. The things that really wanted to be said still hung in the back of their minds.

"Just calling to check up on you." (Dear God, are you alright?)

"Thanks, but you didn't need to." (I've been longing to hear your voice.)

"Everyone at the lab is worried about you." (You scared me. I had nightmares about you.)

"I'm sorry I didn't call them, I'll be in tonight." (I love and dread the moments I see your beautiful face.)

"Griss, you called me while you were in California, do you remember?" (Don't say you don't remember, don't say it was nothing.) There was a long silence.

"Vaguely." (Yes, I remember, if I'd been in Vegas, I would have been in your apartment…I would have drowned myself in you.) His voice was quiet.

"You were drunk." (Do you always get drunk when you feel bad? Do you always get angry when you drink? My father did that…) Another long silence.

"I hope.. I hope I didn't say anything… I mean…" (Ten fucking minutes, such a short interval has wrecked me… Did you know I look just like my father? I didn't.)

"You told me your dad died. And then you got angry, started yelling." (You said you wanted to hear my voice… why my voice…what do I mean to you?)

"Oh, Sara, I'm sorry…I didn't mean…" (I was lonely…I am lonely…dear God, this house is so empty…my girl…please…)

"No, no, I just… are you okay?" (Please say no, give me an excuse to come see you…)

"Yeah." (Don't believe me… I'm lying to you…)

"Do you want to talk about any of this?" (I'm a fool to think you really need me, aren't I?)

"No."

"Okay, then."

"See you at the lab."

There was silence after the call ended.

I am my father's son.

------

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3: Angel of Mercy, don

**Intervals in Broken Time**

A.J. Breton

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See Ch.1 for Disclaimers and Summary.

The fragmentation continues…I have little tags at the beginning of some sequences to help keep the timeline in order, but I've let some just "float" for dramatic effect. Hope it's not confusing.

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**Ch. 3: Angel of mercy, don't leave us now…**

The Day Before:

"Your father was a man of some means, Dr. Grissom." Gil stayed quiet.

"Uh..well, sir, as per your wishes, your father's assets will be liquidated. As his only named heir I will have the monies transferred…" Gil shifted in his seat, not really listening to the slick haired lawyer, his father's lawyer, rambling on about wills and inherences. His father owned a home, a house Gil had never seen. He owned a small boat and apparently held significant investments.

The lawyer, Bennett, contacted Gil only an hour after he'd gotten to the hospital. Only an hour and ten minutes after Sean Gabriel Grissom died. The young lawyer gave his condolences then gave directions to his office so they could go over the paperwork.

The internment arrangements were spelled out. No service. Cremation. Simple burial in a plot already paid for. No priests. No family.

Gil signed and initialed documents without reading. His dad's property would be auctioned off, his personal effects would be donated to local charities…Gil's attention faded again…he really didn't need to be here. According to his father's living will, he shouldn't be there. Gil was listed as Sean's only next of kin, listed with an outdated phone number and address. Gil had found out from the nurses at the hospital that when his father had been admitted, _two days ago,_ he had requested that no one call his son. It hadn't been until a sudden massive stroke put Sean in a coma that the hospital staff set about trying to find Gil.

Sean Gabriel Grissom died alone in a hospital room at age 76 with no family or friends to say goodbye to. Gilbert Gabriel Grissom sat alone on a bar stool at age 50 with no friends or family to share his frustration with.

The shot burned far too much as he poured it back. The beer he chased it with was cool, if not satisfying, as it washed away the taste of the whiskey. He'd already had a few and was now at a decision making point. He was at the precipice of drunk. If he was smart, he'd leave now, go back to his motel room and get some sleep. If he did that, he could still avoid a hangover.

The bartender, a tall, thin man of probably 25, sidled up to the bar asking with an eyebrow if Gil was good or wanted another. Gil pulled out his wallet, he'd been paying cash up to this point.

He thought about his motel room. It was small. It was empty. Like his dad's hospital room, like his townhouse in Vegas. He pulled out a credit card and slapped it on the bar top.

"Keep setting them up until this runs out or I pass out." He slid the thin piece of plastic to the young man. The bartender nodded and walked away with the card, coming back a few moments later setting down another shot and opening another bottle of beer. The shot was gone in a moment and Gil let his throat burn while he slid his eyes across the bar, they stopped at a tall, thin brunette at a table by the door, she had to be about half Gil's age. She had perfect lips.

For a well-educated man, Gilbert Grissom wasn't always smart.

----

Later on…In Vegas…

His whiskers scratched almost uncomfortably hard against her back. Somewhere between passion and pain she cried out harshly but he didn't slow down, keeping her pinned to the countertop in her apartment's kitchen as he moved roughly inside her.

"Griss…" Sara was shaking now, uncontrollably. Grissom said nothing, only holding her down, only thrusting.

She was unsure if she should be fighting him or not, caught as she was between desperately wanting, needing him like this, hard, violent, and desperately needing, wanting him to stop, to cry to caress and kiss her softly. But there was no love from this man. He was cold, a machine, unloving, and she was now his girl. Sara started to cry…

She woke up hours after the call from California, sobbing in her blanket.

---

The night after…in the LVPD crime lab.

There were no insipid sympathy cards on his desk. No one put a hand on his shoulder and said they were sorry for his loss. Well, one person did…Conrad Ecklie…and in the same breath sternly ordered that Gil's proficiency reviews be completed by the end of shift.

Five or six years ago there would have been cards and talk and hugs and concern…but now there was a wall of silence that preceded him, cutting off conversations as he approached. There were eyes that flickered to him and then away as he passed his co-workers in the halls. There was hushed speech as he drew away from them, nose down in a folder, as always. Over the past few years he had slowly and not entirely unconsciously alienated himself from his co-workers. He had methodically separated himself from their friendship as a coroner extracts a bullet from a corpse. Was he the bullet or was he the body? Was he the foreign object that caused life to stop? Was he the reminder of things deadly? Or was he the body? Was he a shell that was left when the evidence of passion and pain were removed? Cold, stiff, unloving and unloved. He was Gruesome Grissom. That nickname no longer was an endearment attached to his sometimes macabre idiosyncrasies, but now a title marking his alone-in-a-crowd status.

It was a quarter-past midnight on his first shift back from California and he had absolutely no assignments to hand-out. Sin-city was apparently sleeping. He stepped into the conference room where his crew sat waiting for him. Their conversations also stopped when he entered. He stood at the head of the table, father like, he thought, as all eyes turned to him waiting. Greg and Nick, expectant, obedient. Warrick, weary but sympathetic. Catherine, caring but guarded. Sara…Grissom didn't let himself meet her eyes. Truth was he loved her eyes. They were brown and deep and gorgeous and sometimes when he couldn't sleep the thought about those eyes. He fantasized staring into them, getting lost in them as she writhed and groaned and bucked against him, gasping his name…

All of this was observed by him and flashed through his mind as he held up his hands, displaying his lack of paper slips.

"Good news, there are no gruesome murders or savage acts of incivility being wracked upon the city tonight. Bad news, because of this, it's going to be a long night. All of you, as well as I have paperwork and bureaucratic nonsense to attend to… tonight is an excellent time to complete these tasks." Groans and rolled eyes ascended from the table.

"Don't go too far from the lab, just in case something comes up."

"Gee, next you're going to tell us not to play in the street." Greg's sarcasm was typical, though it was unusual for him cop an attitude directly with Grissom. Griss fixed the young man with a stern glare, but Greg's boyish smile was disarming and the rest of the room was snickering at the comment.

"If you have nothing more important to do, Greg, my tarantula's cage needs cleaning." More snickering, Greg pasted an appropriately chided expression on his face and the team started getting up and leaving the room.

Grissom let them go, watching their interactions as they left. Warrick and Nick started harassing Greg, with Catherine chiming in every so often. Sara didn't participate and was the last one to leave the room. Grissom let his eyes follow her for just a few moments. In some hazy, half-blacked-out memory he could recall a bar and a pretty girl named Sara…but almost as soon as he remembered it…it faded away.

----

36 years earlier:

"Father, I need your advice."

"Of course, my son. What is troubling you?"

The priest's private office was small but the desk was large, as was the crucifix Gilbert now stared at over the father's shoulder, it dominated the office. Christ hung, writing in absolute agony. His face contorted as though he was being tortured at the very core of his being. The fourteen year old thought he had an idea what that expression was about. For the past several nights, since coming back from his summer visit to Uncle Danny, Gilbert had been praying for the courage to do this.

"Father, something has happened…has been happening. I-I don't know what to d-do…"

---

Around 4:00 am the call came in. A seven year old boy was found dead, brutalized. The graveyard shift came alive.

---

"Lying is a sin, my son." The priest's Adam's apple bobbed behind his crisp white collar.

"But father…" He stuttered, he always stuttered around adults…"It's t-true…m-m-my Uncle D-Danny..."

"Gilbert!" The voice was like thunder in the small room; Gilbert could see the crucifix move under the reverberations. The father sat upright in his chair glaring sternly at the now shaken boy, "Daniel Grissom is a good Catholic and a generous benefactor to this church and its congregation. Lying, especially about something so atrocious, is unacceptable behavior, Gilbert. Does your mother know that you're here making such ridiculous claims?" It took the boy a moment to find his voice.

"No, s-sir." Somewhere inside him, in a place Gilbert couldn't describe, a little piece of him went cold, shuddered and died.

----

Greg and Nick were on the perimeter, Catherine and Warrick stayed at the station to talk to the parents who were being brought in. Sara and Grissom were in the house processing the body. Sara knelt down before the boy. David had released the corpse officially, but Grissom requested it not be moved yet. She took in the scene.

The boy had been beaten about his body, but his face was more or less untouched. He was a dark-haired, handsome boy, Sara thought. The child's eyes were still open, even in death they seemed too wise for his age. She looked up at Grissom, who had not spent any time directly with the body; instead he examined the rest of the room. Sara swabbed the boy's exposed skin and meticulously scrutinized his clothing for any kind of trace materials. As she passed over the boy's face again she considered his features…God, she thought, he looks like he could be Grissom's kid. She watched Grissom again as his hands hovered over a photo on the wall. Father and son.

----

Catherine steeled herself for the interview. The boy was seven, apparently strangled, though the autopsy was needed to confirm that. His name was Gabriel Hovanec and he'd been badly beaten. She now waited with Warrick for the parents to arrive with the police.

She braced herself for the tears and the heartache. How many times had she been moved to tears by devastated parents only later to find mothers who had choked off the very life they created or fathers who had given in to rage shaking or crushing the very best part of living? How many little girls and boys had lain out on autopsy tables, but all Catherine could see was Lindsey? Catherine would kill herself before hurting her child. She took a breath. Parents were always the first suspects, but she couldn't let herself jump to any conclusions. Cases with kids were always tough on everyone. She glanced over at Warrick, who was tapping his finger anxiously.

----

Gabriel. Why did his name have to be Gabriel? Grissom went over his crime scene notes for the umpteenth time. He and Sara had come back from the scene a little while ago finding painfully little to bring back. Sara was already hand delivering the evidence to the lab techs. Nick and Greg had found some shoeprints and were still at the house taking casts, but from the looks of them they probably weren't anything that couldn't be explained by normal family activity.

The digital photos from the scene were on his computer. He was a dark-haired boy with an innocent face. Gabriel.

"Evidence is being processed as we speak." Sara walked into his office and took a seat in front of this desk. "Honestly, Griss, I don't think we're going to get much out of what we picked up."

"I don't either." His voice was quiet. Sara followed his gaze to the computer seeing the young victim's face again.

"He's a cute kid."

"Yeah. His name is Gabriel Hovanec."

There was a silence in the room. Sara stared at her supervisor as his eyes seemed to focus somewhere else. Grissom was often withdrawn, but since coming back from California he'd seemed completely cut off from the rest of the world. Sara continued to look at him as unknown emotions played behind his eyes. She wished she could unlock that safe, knock down that wall that he used to either protect or smother himself. With his eyes still not in the here-and-now Griss let out a soft breath.

"If I was ever to have a son, I always wanted to name him Gabriel."

Sara's mouth dropped open. She closed it quickly. Had she heard that right? Had he just confessed an intensely personal fact about himself? The most disturbing thing about it though, was not what he had said but how his voice sounded. It had a defeated edge to it, a timbre Sara had only heard from Grissom once before.

----

Months earlier:

Dr. Lurie stopped in mid-stride leaving the interrogation room.

"Sad, isn't it…" Sara had never heard Grissom's voice sound quite so tired, so old. His eyes were haunted, reflecting inner emotions Sara couldn't decipher.

"Two guys like us…" Sara's reflection eclipsed her view of Grissom as he spoke, eyes unfocused.

"…our work consumes our lives…" Our. Us. Why was he speaking like that?

"…realize we've lived 50 years and haven't lived at all…" Had his eyes actually flickered to the mirror, looking where she was hidden, or had she imagined it?

"…all of a sudden we get a second chance, someone young and beautiful comes…she offers us a new life…" Sara tried to look at his eyes. He'd called her beautiful before, it was the first time a man had said that to her in a way that she'd believed him.

"…we'd have to risk everything we've worked for to have her. I couldn't do it." Sara reeled, feeling briefly weak in the knees. This really wasn't an interrogation ploy, this really was Grissom speaking…about her. That broken expression, was for her.

Risk everything.

"Now you have nothing."

Dr. Lurie's face was a slate, stoic, restrained, but fragile, not unlike the expression Grissom usually wore at work.

"I'm still here." His voice was just as hollow sounding as Griss's.

"Are you?"

Sara stood, rooted, speechless. She willed the tumult inside her to recede. Clinching her jaw the way she had thousands of times before in her life until the muscles hurt, a little physical pain to help control the internal tidal wave she was riding. It was an odd combination of disappointment, rage, empathy and desire.

Dr. Lurie left the room. When Grissom sighed it was as though his very soul shook with defeat. Sara shuddered.

Risk everything.

Just to have her. Did he even think about that? Having her? The way she thought about him? Just once she'd longed to hear him say he needed her, wanted her without there being a dead body involved. Risk. There was risk in any relationship. Was she not worth it? Her temper flared. She walked away from the window before he left the room.

----

Doc Robbins wasn't always good at deciphering other people's emotions or moods. There was a reason he worked with the dead and not the living. But even he could tell there was something off about his friend when he'd come into the autopsy lab with Sara.

Ahh, Sara Sidle, now she was a lovely creature. Far too young, but certainly a nice sight to behold in his cold, steel world of corpses and cutting instruments.

Gil's mood, Robbins figured, was due to the case at hand, the seven-year-old Hovanec boy. He motioned to the body on his table and brought the discussion right down to business.

"The victim was strangled, manually; I did get some prints off of the throat…"

"Which didn't get any hits off our databases." Sara interjected.

"Other than that, the boy was physically abused, signs of repeated beatings, I'm guessing fists and foreign objects. I had David roll him over and there was what looked like belt marks across his back. X-rays show a few previously broken bones, all of which had healed completely months ago." He paused to take a sip of his coffee. "There is also evidence of sexual molestation, bruising and such…" he waved his hand at this part, indicating that he'd really rather not go into detail, "I have it all documented in my report."

For the first time since entering the room, Grissom spoke.

"Interesting there are no marks or bruises on his face."

"True," Robbins nodded, "you'd think that with the rage dumped on this kid he would have caught one across the face."

"Not if the attacker was careful." Sara offered. "All the bruises are easy to hide with ordinary clothes. Nothing on the face or hands…very little even on the forearms or lower legs…" she pointed out her observations, "this makes it harder for outsiders to figure out what's going on, makes sure no takes your kids away from you." There was a slight darkness in Sara's eyes that Robbins wasn't sure he'd seen before.

"So, you're thinking the parents did this?"

"It's too early to assert that," Grissom warned, watching Sara.

"Still," she met his gaze, "this kind of abuse, killed in their own home, even if the parents didn't do it, they have know something."

----

_The phone don't ring… and the sun refused to shine_

_Never thought I'd have to pay so dearly for what was already mine_

_For such a long, long time…_

Mia kept the radio low. She'd gotten comfortable enough to play music in the lab, but she still didn't like to blare it the way Greg did.

_We made mad love, shadow love, random love and abandoned love…_

Sara had gotten a few hairs from the Hovanec case and Mia just finished the processing. Now it was up to the computer to find a match.

…_accidentally like a martyr_

_the hurt gets worse _

_and the heart gets harder…_

----

He absently traced the handle of his coffee mug with his finger. She watched his hands. They were big and strong with stocky fingers that matched the frame of his body. Sometimes when she couldn't sleep she thought about those hands. They would be surprisingly rough on her bare skin, they would caress her, maddenly soft, barely touching before grabbing her, fingers digging in, leaving bruises. She didn't care about bruises. Those hands would hold, grab, and hover, moving, gliding everywhere where she longed to be touched, everywhere she never knew she wanted to be touched. Those hands would be meticulous and ravaging and gentle and brutal at her whim…

The movement of Grissom's hand back to the case file snapped Sara out of her trance. She frowned, scolding herself for the lapse. This case was important; she couldn't let herself drift off like that. She stood, needing to put some distance between them.

"I-uh- am going to see if Mia's gotten anything yet."

Grissom only barely looked up. "Hmmm," was his only response. Sara swallowed a sigh. There she was lusting for him only a couple of feet away and he didn't know, and couldn't care less. She strode out of his office, trying not to look like she was hurrying.

Pathetic.

Music met her at the doorway.

_The days slide by…should have done, should have done, we all sigh_

_Never thought I'd be so lonely, after such a long, long time…_

_Time out of mind…_

_We made mad love…_

-----

-----

TBC…soon I hope.

Song lyrics in italics are from "Accidentally Like a Martyr" by the late, very great Warren Zevon.

A/N: In the Roman Catholic tradition the patron saint/angel of mercy is Gabriel the Archangel.


	4. Chapter 4: All Alone I seem to Break

**Intervals in Broken Time**

A.J. Breton

-----

See Ch.1 for Disclaimers and Summary.

The fragmentation continues…Sorry about the delay in posing this, I never meant for there to be a case file in this story, but since I put the whole thing in with Gabriel, I had to figure out where to go with this.

Lots of spoilers, but I don't know any episode names. I assume if you're a GSR person, you'll catch on to the scenes described.

Reviewers! Thank you, you guys make this worthwhile.

A/N: chapter's title comes from the Korn song "All alone I break" I heard the song on the radio and knew immediately what to title this chapter. The Nietzsche quote that Grissom gives is from _Thus Spake Zarathustra._

--------

Chapter 4: all alone I seem to break, does this make me not a man?

Puzzles. There were always problems, riddles to be unraveled. Normally, Gil loved riddles, he enjoyed puzzles. Even as a boy he'd gotten a certain excitement from untying mental knots. He'd been a short, stocky, non-athletic kid, and with his mother's deafness, he didn't speak out loud at home, which made him feel awkward speaking around others. But puzzles were like potato chips to Grissom, just a small taste of a mystery that might need solved, and he would become enraptured, following all leads to their conclusion, crunching down to the last salty crumbs in the bottom of the bag.

But today wasn't normal, and Gil didn't feel like wrapping his intellect around this problem. Sara had found a hair on Gabe Hovanec's body, Mia had run the evidence. The hair belonged to a first-degree male relative. Gabriel had no brothers. The man that Catherine had interviewed with Gabriel's mother was his step-father, no genetic relationship.

"According to Laura Hovanec," Catherine continued, filling Sara and Griss in on her and Warrick's interview, "Gabriel never knew his real father, a man named Gerald Mongiardi, in fact she never told Gerald she was pregnant. Gabriel was a year and a half old when she married Peter Hovanec, Peter is the only father Gabriel has ever known."

"Well, obviously Gerald found out about his son, and met him." Sara interjected, her fingers twitched on Grissom's desktop they way they often did when she was trying to figure something out. Griss watched them out of the corner of his eye. Catherine nodded and continued.

"Gerald has a record," she flipped through her file, "petty theft, breaking and entering, possession of stolen goods…nothing violent and nothing in the past five years. His last known address was in Ohio, two years ago." She sighed, "that's where our trail goes cold." Silence hung in the office as everyone took in the information.

"What was your take on the mother and step-father?" Grissom asked, his voice unusually quiet. Catherine couldn't suppress the frown at his voice, two days after his father's death and Grissom still seemed a million miles away. Anyone else and that might be expected, but since when did Gil Grissom let things, any thing, bother him? She decided not to pursue that now, though Catherine noted Sara's expression seemed to be echoing her thoughts.

"I can't point to anything directly, but Laura seems edgy about something. Peter was very quick to point out that he wasn't Gabriel's real father. I'd bet good money that Peter's a drinker."

"How can you tell?" Grissom again.

"He's just got that 'been-drinking-for-twenty-years' look to him, rosy and slow. I don't know that for certain, it's just a feeling I got from him." Grissom nodded. He didn't understand Catherine's 'feelings' but he knew that they were usually right.

"What did they say about the abuse?" This time it was Sara speaking.

"Usual lame non-answers," the frustration in Cath's voice was plain, "he got the bruises playing with other boys, or because he was clumsy…" she trailed off, pausing before speaking again. "I don't which one of them beat Gabriel, maybe both of them, but none of that explains how Gabe got in contact with his birth father. They claimed to be totally shocked about the molestation, and I'm not sure if they were faking that or not."

"It's a puzzle." Sara sighed, eyes flicking toward Grissom, she was starting to hate puzzles.

----

A few years earlier…

"Oh we'll have dinner again…just not together." Terri Miller's words had stung him, but he'd hoped that the subtle flirt in her sultry voice was real and not just his imagination. His blood thundered in his veins later that night when he'd asked for another chance with her…how many times had he asked a woman for another chance? Her eyes seemed to want to say no, but the word yes came from her mouth, Gil saw her gorgeous lips move, but his ears failed at that moment and all he heard was the whirr of his pulse.

Dinner had been awkward, both of them searching for anything not forensics related to talk about. They finally stumbled on art. Terri had seen an exhibition of German expressionist prints at a local gallery, and seemed genuinely surprised when Gil spoke quite competently about the Nietzschean theories behind their abstraction.

"What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal; what is lovable in man is that he is an over-going and a down-going." He quoted.

"How is it you became interested in art?"

My mother is a dealer and owns a gallery, she loves art passionately and spent hours teaching me its history and describing its forms, her hands flitting through the air… all this ran through his mind…he only shrugged, feeling his instincts already pulling him back inside himself.

"What other exhibits have you seen recently?" If she noticed the deflection, she didn't give any indication, and instead told him of the Gustave Moreau paintings she'd seen in Pittsburgh.

----

Double parked in Vegas:

He wasn't sure why he was there. He had no business being at the Dominion, Heather didn't want him, like every other woman he'd tried to be intimate with she'd eventually become disgusted with him and his reclusiveness. He sat in his SUV looking at the door of the building. Heather wouldn't accept him as a visitor, but maybe as a client? He mulled over the idea of paying for…for what exactly? What was it he wanted from her? It wasn't sex he wanted, though it'd been a long time since he'd had any. Gil wasn't above paying for sex, he'd done that before. There was a legal brothel many miles north of Vegas. His favorite girl there was Samantha. He never called her that. On his visits to her she'd been Amanda or Jennifer or Terri or Judy…once she'd been Catherine, but only that one time.

In his car he now thought about Samantha, she could be Heather, he supposed…or Sara…he'd never called her Sara before. His mind wandered, the brothel had many rooms, places that could be staged to whatever one's whim desired.

Samantha as Sara in a clean white-tiled bathroom, hands pressed against the shower door, gasping voice echoing under the pounding water as he watched the streams cascade down her back…

Suddenly Gil snapped out of his fantasy. He shook his head quietly. That's not what he wanted. Even if he did drive up to the brothel he wouldn't have the nerve to call her Sara, and now even if he went into the Dominion he wouldn't have the nerve to face Heather.

He'd spent the last two hours in his small townhouse staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, not sleeping. The rest of Vegas was awake, vital, but Grissom felt like the walking wounded. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Gabriel Hovanec's face, when he had started to dose off, he'd been with Sara in the shower again, taking in her scent, slitting her throat…

Between the memory of Gabriel's pleading face and the dream-sensation of Sara's hot blood making his hands sticky, Grissom had felt like he was coming unhinged. He needed to get out of that room, that house, and so he had, jumping in his car and screeching his tires as he pulled out of his driveway.

And now he was here. The Dominion cast a shadow across the hood of the big vehicle. He had kissed Heather once, hands cupping her face, she tasted sweet. Even then he had idly wondered how many others had kissed those same lips. His knuckles turned white around the steering wheel. He tried to move to open the door, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He knew he wasn't going in. As much as a part of him wanted her punishment, her acceptance, he wouldn't see it through. With his brain still protesting, he loosed his hands from the wheel long enough to start the car and pull away. Still feeling disconnected, and unhinged, he pulled out into traffic quickly, not looking. He needed punishment, he needed…well…something… but not from Heather…

----

30 years ago under the warm California sun:

She always looks gorgeous in the sunlight, he thought, a lopsided grin breaking his usually somber face as he took the steps up to their apartment two at a time. Being in college full time he really couldn't afford this place, as basic as it was, but staying with his mother and being with Amanda was not going to happen, mother had made that clear.

So Gil got a job, two jobs actually. One was part-time between classes on campus, the other a night job off campus. His paychecks were meager, but combined with Amanda's waitress tips they were enough, just barely.

He'd been dumbstruck the moment he'd seen her on campus. He had acted like a complete idiot, making an ass of himself trying to impress her. It had taken a long time, but he'd finally gotten the nerve to ask her out. On their first date they'd gone to dinner, the second date was to a movie, and on the third date she'd snuck him into her bedroom at home while her parents were out, showing him how to do things he'd only fantasized about while looking at his stash of Playboys, he'd crawled out her window before dawn with scratches down his back, having already made his decision. Before midday he'd gone into town and bought the nicest ring he could afford, just for her.

Gil fumbled with his keys as he reached the door to their apartment. Everyone said they were too young, that this was a mistake, that this thing they had was lust, not love. His mother had been furious, and Amanda's father even more so, actually threatening Gil at one point. But for the first time in his young life, Gil didn't care. He was in love, he knew he was. This afternoon, with his seminar cancelled, he was going to take his fiancé out and enjoy the warm California sunshine.

----

Griss sat in his SUV in front of Sara's apartment complex and snapped off the ignition. Thinking about Heather, he left his car and started toward the entrance. Thinking of Samantha he stormed up the steps. Thinking of Amanda, he burst out into the hallway. Thinking of Debbie Marlin, he paused at Sara's door. As his knuckles hesitantly rapped against the cold, metal door, thoughts of Uncle Danny swept through his mind…

-------

Sara twisted in her sheets…

"Pin me down."

…memories were echoes making her squirm, half asleep…

His hands felt like they could crush her thin wrists as they wrapped around her. His grip was more firm than was necessary, but not too tight. He was standing unbearably close, she could feel the heat of his body as it almost, but not quite, grazed against her.

They were talking about blood stain patterns on the sheet that hung behind her, trying to determine how the players in this fatal melodrama had moved. She was aware of the conversation and of her participation in it, but all she could look at was his jawline under his neatly trimmed beard. She'd never looked at Grissom from this particular angle before, and her brain worked quickly to file away the view and the sensations for the next time she was sleepless and horny in her little, empty apartment.

He seemed to have no clue at the dirty thoughts his mere closeness caused her to have, but Sara felt a flush of shame inside her anyway. She became aware of the fact that she was talking, over-talking, about them…oh God, Sara, shut up! She left the room in a hurry, leaving Grissom looking confused, his mouth opening and closing around words that wouldn't come.

Sara moaned as her fingers rubbed hard between her thighs. The memory of Grissom's scent, the imagined weight of his body, the image of his clenched jaw playing across her mind.

------

Memories were like raindrops, their noises splattering inside his head as he waited, still knocking at her door…_he hated it when mother cried…I'm sure he'll be a good man…_

------

Sara stood, slightly slackjawed, in the doorway to her apartment as her supervisor shifted his weight anxiously. She'd been sleeping, though not very well, when the knock on her door had pulled her out of her half-dream-half-memories. Not thinking about the shorts and tank-top she wore, she'd groggily opened the door, and nearly slammed it shut again in surprise. Gil Grissom stood there, looking a bit blurry-eyed.

"Can I come in?" Sara realized that this wasn't the first time he'd asked her that. Finding her senses she stepped aside.

"Uhh, yeah, yeah…come in, I guess." He was past her before she finished speaking, in her living area before she even closed the door behind him.

Gil felt like he was on the verge of panic. He'd just flown down city streets from the Dominion to here, to Sara's apartment, and now he was barging inside, where he had no right to be. What the hell was wrong with him? What did he want from her? He turned on his heel and looked at Sara. She'd obviously been sleeping. Gil felt his pulse begin to thump in his ears looking at her disheveled state, her shorts stopped mid-thigh and her tank top was cut wonderfully low, hanging loosely off her shoulders, so loose it might just slide off her…Gil pulled his eyes away from her. A tirade bubbled up inside him, but his instincts were pushing the words back, already instructing him to leave, to run, it isn't safe here…

"Griss, are you okay?" Sara was fully awake now. Grissom, for all the world, looked like he was wrestling with some invisible demon.

"Yeah." (No. I'm breaking inside.)

"Are you sure? Do you want some coffee or something?" Sara wondered if he was drunk again, his erratic phone call playing in her memory.

"I..uh…I'm sorry, S-Sara, I shouldn't have come here." (God, Sara, hold me, help me, I feel like I'm falling to pieces.)

"Why did you come here?" (Did you need to hear my voice…)

His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. (I need you.) He shook his head.

"Well…" there was a long pause, "let me get you some coffee anyway."

"I look just like my father." Grissom felt his face go flush and his heart skipped a beat. His internal censor immediately came down on him, and he fell silent just as suddenly as the revelation had escaped his lips. He could feel himself shutting down, his emotions getting forcibly pushed aside. Sara stood staring at him, her hands stopped in mid-motion, filling the coffee carafe with water.

"I..uh..didn't know that." Sara fumbled with the taps, turning them off. She didn't know why, but she felt like he had opened a door for her, she needed to go through it. "You weren't very close to your father were you?"

Grissom stood rooted to the floor in the living room, speechless.

No, no you don't, Sara thought. No more reeling me in just so I can bounce off your defenses. Out loud she said, "I never heard you talk about your dad until you called me from California."

Still he was silent.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

------

45 years ago:

Mother was crying. Gilbert hated it when his mother cried, but as usual he felt powerless to help her. He sat on the floor at her feet in the master bedroom, looking up at her as she sobbed into her hands.

The bed bounced a little as father dropped his suitcase on it and calmly started opening the dresser drawers, moving his well-kept clothing into the case.

"Sean…" mother looked over at him, she wiped her face. Gilbert thought she looked scared…but he didn't understand why… "Sean…" she said again, but father didn't stop packing, "please reconsider this. If you must leave…fine…but divorce…"

Not many people had ever called young Gilbert handsome, but everyone said he was smart, he felt comfortable talking to adults, but mother's words had left him confused.

"Mama…what does that mean?" His small voice seemed too loud in the room he put his hand on his mother's leg. Mother snapped her head down, glaring at the boy.

"Shhh! Not now, boy." Gilbert pulled his hand back suddenly, as though it had been slapped. Mother sometimes got upset with him, but he had never heard her voice sound that angry before. Mother was already talking to father again, she stood and put her body between him and the suitcase. Gilbert stayed sitting on the floor, watching, trying to understand…

"Sean, please talk to me…"

"I've said all that I intend, Elizabeth." Father's voice, as usual, was calm, quiet. "Don't be so dramatic. Let's not make a scene in front of the boy."

"No, let's!" and with a sudden movement, mother's hands snapped down onto the stack of shirts father was holding, knocking them to the floor. Gilbert saw his father's face go blank, his blue eyes narrowed. Gilbert knew immediately that he was mad, very mad.

The last time Gilbert had seen that look on father's face was when he'd accidentally bumped his desk in father's den, sloshing a cup of coffee onto the papers father had been reading. Gilbert had just caught a beautiful, red butterfly and had run into the house to show him…Gilbert thought that the slap mother now got across her face had to have been even harder than the one he'd gotten in the den. Mother fell to her knees, crying again.

"This is exactly the sort of nonsense…" Father stopped, took a deep breath, and unclenched his fists. When he spoke again, his voice was calm.

"You knew this was coming. It was inevitable. You know that if you'd never gotten pregnant in the first place," his eyes flicked, for only a moment to the boy who stared back at him, raptly, "we'd probably never have gotten married." Mother was still on the floor, looking up at him.

"I never planned it that way, Sean."

"It doesn't matter. With my absence, you can raise the boy as you see fit. Put him in that Catholic school you keep talking about."

"How? Sean, how can I support us both?"

"I thought you wanted to be independent." The last word was spit out of his mouth like something sour. "Isn't that why you nagged about opening that insipid gallery? Besides, I'm sure my brother Daniel will be happy to help you."

"Nothing happened between Danny and I, Sean, I'd never…" Father cut her off.

"Elizabeth, stop. The decision has been made." He stooped, picking his shirts off the floor. He packed them into his case then snapped it shut, pulled it off the bed and slid it next to the bedroom door. He then turned toward Gilbert.

Cold blue met young confusion as their eyes intersected.

"Take care of your mother, my boy. You're to be the man of the house now." He turned back to mother, his voice sounded tired and even a little bored, "I'm sure he'll mind you well enough. I'm sure he'll be a good man."

Those were the last words Gilbert Grissom ever heard his father say.

-------

Back in the moment:

"Griss?" Sara was getting a bit worried.

He still wasn't speaking or moving. If silence were water Sara felt she would've drowned. Finally, after it seemed neither one of them could breathe for the lack of air, Gil shifted his feet.

"I was five." His voice was a whisper. His heart thumped so quickly in his chest, he found it hard to stand still. Feeling slightly lightheaded he became aware of the fact he was swaying a little. His mouth was parched and his palms dripped sweat.

Sara saw Griss swing back on his heels then forward again. Maybe he was drunk. Suddenly, with an edge in his voice that made her jump slightly…

"I'm sorry, Sara. I shouldn't have bothered you. I don't even know why I came here." He started toward the door. Instinctively Sara stepped into his path.

"Griss, wait." She put her hand up in front of his chest. He stopped barely an inch away, she could feel his heat on her palm. She locked eyes with him. "Tell me." She hoped she looked and sounded authoritative or at least confidant, neither of which she felt. "What is going on with you?"

"Nothing." His voice was icy. His suffocating self-control struggling to re-establish itself.

"Wrong answer." Sara was surprised by the strength in her own tone. "Tell me."

It was a simple request. Tell her. Grissom's heart continued to race, he resisted the urge to grasp at his chest. His mind clicked on overdrive. Tell you. Tell you? Tell you what…

…my dad left because he never loved my mother…I don't think he ever loved me…I wrote him letters…he never wrote back…never called…never visited…Tell you? Tell you that his brother, my uncle, my only father figure…was a pedophile…oh the things he did to me…whispering he loved me…he was going to make me a man…Tell you? Tell you that every day of my adult life I've been terrified that I might turn into what I've been taught…that Gabriel Hovanec could've been my son if I'd ever had one…all because my father never loved me…

His eyes stayed locked with hers. Across his mind's eye he saw a flash of white tile streaked in blood. His voice could barely be heard as he whispered to her, still standing in front of him…

"I could loose myself to you…I could destroy us both…"

With a gracefulness he didn't feel, he stepped around her outstretched arm toward the door. Her voice stopped him as his hand rested on the doorknob.

"I thought I was your girl." Sara sucked in her breath. Why the _hell_ did I just say that?

"You are." And he was gone.

Anticipating the nightmares that were surely going to wrack her, Sara walked half-dazed to the cupboard above her sink, opening it she reached inside, her hand grasping the cold neck of the vodka bottle in the back.

-------

30 years earlier, under the warm California sun:

Gil stood rooted in the doorway of the apartment. Amanda, his beautiful Amanda, was being slammed against the far wall of their one-room apartment, her bare legs wrapped tightly around the waist of the tall, dark-haired man who groaned loudly as he thrust into her again and again…

"Uhh…Ryan…God, Ryan….ohh…" His beautiful love…was getting her brains fucked out against the wall…his wall…Gil never really knew what rage was, until that moment…He felt the sensation of fingernails digging harshly into his palms, his own fingernails, drawing blood. He didn't remember crossing the room, nor did he remember grabbing 'Ryan' by the throat, but he had a clear image of himself bashing that fucker's head against the wall.

"Gil wait!" Amanda's voice was panicked, "Gil, wai…" she was silenced by the backhanded slap that spun her around. Gil watched her cower away from him in the corner of the room, her eyes totally eclipsed by her sudden fear of him. He felt a surge of power. He felt dangerous, disconnected, unhinged. He'd deal with her later, for now…

He turned back to Ryan.

TBC…..

Thanks for your patience, I hope it was worth the wait.


	5. Chapter 5: Who Will Mend

**Intervals in Broken Time**

**A.J. Breton**

A/N: Whoa, this update is a loooooong time in the coming. My apologies. What can I say, sometimes the real world, really sucks. But now I'm happily back in the land of fan-fiction. Spoilers for Seasons 5 and Six. Please review, and big, big thanks to those of you that have stuck with me.

**Chapter 5: Who will mend these broken wings?**

Tuesday Afternoon:

He sat in his car after leaving Sara's apartment, his whole body trembling. Sara. She'd tried, desperately she'd tried to reach him and again he'd lured her in and shoved her away.

Gil looked up at his dashboard. He may have been there 5 minutes, maybe 10. It was past midday, he had to go to work that night. Sara was probably already back in bed, sleeping.

He snapped his SUV on and pulled onto the road, but as he came to the turn to reach his townhouse, he drove past.

------------------------

Tuesday, Just Before Midnight:

"Where's Griss?" Catherine noticed how very weary Sara sounded.

"I haven't seen him. He should be here by now."

"Yeah? I'll look around for him." Her voice was lifeless.

"Sara? Are you alright? You sound kind of down?"

The smile Sara forced was completely unconvincing. "I'm alright, I just didn't sleep much."

"How's the Hovanec case coming?"

"It's not. No leads on Gerald Mongiardi's location, without him we really don't have much of anything."

"Damn," Catherine shook her head, taking in the younger woman's ragged appearance. "I hate these cases. Little boy; victim; depressing." Her voice was sympathetic and she resisted a maternal urge to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.

--------------------------

20 years ago, L.A. Coroner's Office:

"You're kind of morbid, ya know?" Andy was a stout man with bushy brown eyebrows that arched as he spoke. He had an unkempt and scruffy appearance to him, but Grissom had discovered his mind was as sharp as could be, he was one of the city's top detectives.

"Me? Morbid?" Grissom sipped his coffee after snapping off his blood drenched latex gloves. Small spatters of blood, like pinpricks, graced the front of his white lab coat, one large dot of red centered neatly on the name tag: Dr. G. Grissom, Chief Coroner.

"Lot's of people are into their work, obsessed, even, but no one I know, in all my years in this business gets the same pleasure from cutting up corpses the way you do."

Grissom smirked, this wasn't the first time someone had accused him of liking his job a little _too_ much. He set his coffee down and stepped back to the autopsy table, gesturing over it while he responded.

"I get pleasure from solving puzzles. These," motioning to the mangled and sliced opened body of the 13 year old boy on the table, "are tremendous puzzles, better than any cryptogram or crossword."

"Kind of gruesome, don't you think, to compare a person's body to a puzzle?"

"I don't think so. A body is a body. It's just all the little bits and pieces God made us with, no different from bugs or dogs or fish…"

"Do you cut those open too?"

"I have." Grissom nodded.

"Gruesome." Andy chuckled, "Gruesome Grissom."

---------------------------

Tuesday evening:

He used to come home for the holidays. It'd been years since he'd come back to spend thanksgiving or Christmas with her. He was a hard working boy, intense, he'd always been an intense boy…Elizabeth Grissom shook her head as her fingers warmed on the sides of her coffee mug. Man. Her Gilbert was a man, of fifty years, no less.

My little boy, she thought, sighing. She watched the rain splatter against the kitchen window. It had been raining all day. She thought about the last time she'd spoken to her son. He had called her at midnight on New Years, from work. His message was short, but loving as it scrolled across the LED screen of her TDD box. He had promised to see her soon, but even then she knew she wouldn't. He always apologized for not coming more often, and she always told him not to be sorry, she understood his work was important.

His work was his life. Elizabeth had given up al long time ago hoping for grandchildren. There had only been a few women that her son had ever talked about with her. Since going to Las Vegas he often mentioned a woman named Catherine, who had a daughter, but she never go the feeling from Gilbert that he ever had any real intentions toward her. Much less frequently he had mentioned a woman named Sara. He was very guarded when he spoke about her, like there was something hidden in their relationship. Elizabeth didn't know what exactly Sara was to her son, but she was certainly important to him.

She hoped Sara was a nice woman. She hoped she was patient, although if she was involved with Gilbert, patience was a requirement. Elizabeth smiled. He could be such a reserved boy at times. Long gone was that little, glowing child who loved to sing and draw for his mother, who would pick flowers from the neighbor's garden for her, and who would put his small arms around her to comfort her when Sean said something horrible. The thought of her ex-husband melted the smile off of her face. Sean could be intense too, and also cold. She never understood how Sean could be so emotionally cut off while his brother, Daniel, was so warm and loving…

The vibrations from her door buzzer snapped her out of her ruminations. Setting the mug down and unconsciously tidying up as she went, she moved to the door. Quickly she ran a hand over the front of her blouse and opened the big, wooden door. Her mouth dropped open.

"Mom," Gil signed, "I need you."

--------------

Back in Vegas, 2:00 am:

Two hours had passed with no word from Grissom. Everyone was worried now. Even Ecklie, who had been called and informed that one of his supervisors was AWOL had calmed his angry rants and now wore an etched expression of worry.

Everyone was on assignments, collecting samples, documenting evidence, but no one was really thinking about their work. Visions of Nick in a coffin haunted them all. Grissom's SUV was gone from his house, there was no sign of struggle. His cell phone was turned off, all calls to it went directly to his voicemail. Preliminary investigation uncovered that Sara was the last person to talk to him.

"He just wanted to go over the Hovanec case," she lied to Brass, trying to look nonchalant, "He was concerned that we were missing something."

"So he woke you up just to go over a case?"

"Yeah. You know how obsessive he is sometimes."

"Did he say he was going anywhere? Did he mention anything unusual?"

Unusual? Sara thought, no, no, nothing unusual, he just came barging in, gaped at me, mentioned his father, said he could destroy me and called me his girl. Nope, no sir, nothing strange about that.

Out loud she tried to sound apologetic, "No, he really didn't."

---------------------------

Thermite. Two otherwise innate elements, that when combined produce a heat so intense they burn each other out, destroying each other.

"I guess some couples shouldn't be together."

Sara's words echoed around Gil's head as he sat on the bed in his mother's guestroom, what had been, decades ago, his room. Mother had fussed over him, made him dinner, insisted he eat, demanded to know what was going on with him. He hadn't answered. He didn't know. Hours had passed, it was close to 2 AM and he knew that there was probably an all out search for him in Las Vegas. Dozens and dozens of man-hours would be wasted looking for him. Resources diverted trying to discover what happened to him. One phone call could end that wastefulness, let his colleagues know where he was and that he was alright.

But he wasn't. Dear God, I am not alright.

He felt absolutely fractured, broken. He should be upset that he was causing this much trouble, he should feel ashamed for acting so impulsively and selfishly, but he didn't.

Memories whirled around his head, unwanted, he rocked in the dark room, back and forth, eyes burning with unshedable tears. A deep sigh ripped out of him and he collapsed backward onto the bed. He grit his teeth together, his hands bound in tight fists. He demanded his body to sleep, and not for the first time in his life, he silently prayed that he would never wake up.

----------------------------

Days Earlier:

Gabriel Hovanec watched in the silent darkness of his bedroom. He was anxious. His dad, his real dad, was coming to see him. Gabe knew it was too much to hope that dad would take him away from this place, but just to see the man, to have the glimmer of promise…he forced himself to sit still on the bed. His eyes were transfixed on his window. Dad had said that he would arrive at 3 AM at his bedroom window, all Gabe had to do was wait, and let him in.

Mom and Peter, the man Gabe had known as dad all his life, were in bed. Dad, or Peter, sometimes got up in the middle of the night, Gabe would hear the man's heavy footsteps in the hallway. He'd get a beer or smoke a cigarette, and then go back to bed. Gabe hoped to God that Peter didn't wake up while dad was here. He would go tell mom, and mom would….

Well, Gabe decided it was probably best if he didn't think about what his mom would do.

-------------------------

As a young girl Sara had learned the importance of silence. Sometimes when there was no where to hide, the best thing to do was to just be absolutely still and quiet. When one was quiet one could hear the noises that would be masked otherwise, noises that could alert approaching danger.

She had been very good at listening which was what one did when one was quiet. She'd gotten very good at recognizing subtle sounds. The old wooden floorboards in her parents' house would whisper to her, warning her. Light, cautious steps were mom's. They were dainty and careful, they would stop briefly before entering a room, crossing the threshold with a minimum of disturbance. Slightly louder, often clumsy steps, with an irregular rhythm were her brother Eric's. The floorboards whispered the loudest under her father's feet. His steps were heavy, quick and never hesitant. He crossed thresholds without pause, opened doors swiftly with a kick from his toe. When Sara walked she tried not to make any noise at all. She had found that if she stayed toward the edges of a room, close to the walls, the boards there didn't creak as much, she was small, and she could glide unseen and unheard through the rooms of the house.

Like a ghost.

Like a whisper.

Like a forgotten memory.

But daddy never forgot about her for long. He might have ignored her for days, never acknowledging her existence, but sooner or later he would catch sight of that small ghost, hugging the walls of the hallway, or he would hear that tiny whisper of air as she moved past. Then the silence would be shattered, and noises of chaos would envelop Sara entirely.

Sara sat thinking about the power of silence, listening to the quiet of the Crime Lab. She gazed down at the crime photos of Gabe Hovanec. Grissom was still missing. She was two hours into a second shift, even though Catherine had not so gently suggested that she go home, get some sleep. Sleep was the last thing Sara wanted.

"I could loose myself to you…I could destroy us both…" She whispered the words Grissom had said to her in her apartment. Was that why he had run? Was he scared of her? Of himself? Where would he go? Where was his haven? Where did he go when he needed to find silence?

--------------------

"Uncle, I don't want to do this anymore."

Daniel Grissom looked down at the dark haired boy, kneeling before him.

"Gilbert, you know you must. What would your mother think if I told her you disobeyed me? She would be so disappointed in you, she trusts you to be a good boy." Daniel watched the tears stream down the boy's face as he reluctantly leaned forward again, moving slowly.

"Ummmmm…" Daniel groaned, placing a hand on the back of the boy's neck, "you're a good boy…my boy…" Daniel leaned his head backwards, closing his eyes. When the man opened his eyes again, they were a different color, his face had changed, his features fuller, rounded. Slight scars on his chin were now covered by a salt-and-pepper beard.

"I love you Gabriel…" his new voice sighed.

Gabriel Hovanec, now the boy on his knees, looked up into the eyes of Gil Grissom, he pulled back, his eyes a mix of rage and fear.

"I would have done this for you, dad…this is what you wanted…"

Gil woke up in his mother's house, screaming, his fists pounding against his own chest.

---------------------

"Imagine you have a deep dark secret…but instead of being able to hide it, it was on your skin, for everyone to see."

Grissom's words rolled through Nick's memory. A deep dark secret exposed to the world. The world was about to see Gerald Mongiardi's secrets. Well, maybe not the world, but the Graveyard shift, minus Grissom was. Nick had to practically choke back the disgust as he set up Mongiardi's laptop, secured from the man's vehicle when he had been pulled over on the north side of town.

The hard drive was filled with photos of young boys, undressed, alone or in pairs, posed in contrived sexual positions with each other or with faceless adult men. They originally just wanted Mongiardi for questioning, but now it was apparent that this man wasn't going to see the light of day for a long, long time.

------------

To be continued...

Soon, I hope, I know this was kind of a short chapter, but I needed kind of a transitional piece to set up where I want this to go. Reviews welcome.


	6. Chapter 6: Ignorance is Kind

**Intervals in Broken Time**

**Chapter 6: Ignorance is kind, there's no comfort in truth, pain is all you'll find…**

Spoilers, season 5: Snakes and others

In his mother's house he could hear seagulls. Somewhere in a foggy mid-world between sleep and wakefulness Gil Grissom listened to the birds and relished in the memory of salt-air against his skin. In a time before sadness and uncertainty had permeated his existence, when he had been much, much more open and trusting, and smaller, he had been entranced by the ocean. As small as he was he loved its smell, its color, its feel.

Things change. Stability crumbles to ambiguity; simple pleasures fade into lost memories. As the sand erodes the hardest stones over time, so too does pain and regret erode the spirit.

A wave of nostalgia washed over Gil, which was quickly overcome by guilt. The trouble he had caused…that he was causing…he lay in bed contemplating his current predicament. As a younger man he could have gotten a job locally, at a community college, or even at a local funeral home, but ambition had turned him away from his mother's house to Los Angeles, to big, glistening coroner's offices and crime labs. Now here he was hiding from everything he'd ever worked for.

He looked up at the ceiling in the room. It had water damage. His mother needed a new roof. As the seagulls screeched he thought about Las Vegas.

Gil would've been perfectly happy to live a life of annominity. A CSI in the Vegas crime lab, employee number 904601, he'd work as long as he could have before retiring, maybe then going to a university and spending the rest of his professional life as a professor, largely unremembered and unremarkable. That would be fine with him. Some men were born to lead, others preferred to follow. Gil just wanted to be. He wanted to work and to be, and not much more.

Jim Brass was a leader. Not in a heroic, grandiose way, but in a practical easy to trust way. He had deserved his position as supervisor, no matter what the conditions of his getting the job were, and he fit into the role well. Jim handed out assignments and made the tough calls, and that suited Gil just fine.

Then Holly Gribbs died.

Jim was demoted. Warrick was under investigation. Gil, as the senior-most CSI was promoted to supervisor. "I need you to decide on an outside investigator to go over Warrick Brown's involvement…pick someone and make your recommendation by tomorrow morning." The sheriff's voice had been staccato and efficient. Gil had stood, gaping, uncertain.

Under the circumstances, he should not have, but he did, he called Jim and asked him what to do. "You'll make the right call," Jim had sounded haunted, tired, "just follow your instincts." Instincts. Right. Those things Gil had spent most of his adult life suppressing in favor of logic and reason.

Sara Sidle. San Francisco Crime Lab. She was young, but had a remarkable record. She was consistently in the top five ranked CSIs in the country. She was a logical choice. She was also safe, familiar.

Five years later and Gil was really no happier with his position of power. Sara sat across from him; he was apologizing for making her cover for him, her boss, that word still seeming so wrong to him. And then she said it…

"You've always been more than just a boss to me. Why do you think I moved to Vegas?"

There it was. That "thing" they had. That thing that made her so safe and so very dangerous. He'd almost said it, right there in his office, with all his bugs as witnesses…

"Let's...let's…" have dinner…talk…spend the night…oh God Sara I'm sorry…

But she knew his silence too well and cut it off.

"You know what…it's okay…" It's too late. She's moved on.

There it was. She left. Gil went back to his paperwork. He had to document the conversation about her counseling for Ecklie. Just part of the burdens of command.

In Marina Del Ray Grissom closed his eyes and tried desperately to remember what salt-air felt like.

----------------

Las Vegas Crime Lab.

Catherine's cell phone vibrated at her hip. Feeling a strange sense of _de-ja-vous_ she answered while pouring coffee in the break-room.

"Willows."

"Hey, it's me."

The coffee mug shattered against the dirty linoleum floor.

"Gil! Jesus, where the hell have you been!"

------------------------

10 minutes later:

"California! What the hell is he doing in California!" Ecklie's voice echoed like breaking glass through the crime lab. Heads snapped around to see the lab supervisor waving his arms angrily in front of Catherine.

"He didn't explain. He just said that he was alright, he is in California, and he doesn't know when he'll be back. He didn't say, but I would guess it has something to do with his mother, maybe she's having health problems…" Catherine was gasping at straws to help Grissom out, and it was obvious. Ecklie interrupted.

"If he had a family emergency he still should have called." His face was flushed red with a blush of anger that started to creep up his bald head. "Did he call you from his cell phone?"

"Yes." Her phone had caller ID on it.

"I'm going to call him myself, and he had better give me one damn good reason not to fire his ass."

-------------------------

Days Earlier, at the Hovenec house:

Gerald Mongiardi smiled at his son, his beautiful boy. He had been named well, he was an angel. The boy was still wiping tears away from his face as he sat on the edge of his bed, the bed where Gerald had just been, where he had expressed his love for that dear, darling boy.

--------------------------

11 years ago, at Harvard University:

His thoughts floated through his mind, soggy as it was with multiple glasses of scotch. Sara. His Sara. She was beautiful in a cream-colored dress that was form fitting and flowing in the cool evening air. It was dangerous for them to be there, together. Even if he was only a guest lecturer, not a regular faculty member, even if this was an informal mixer off campus. She was still a student, and he was technically her professor, and both of their reputations would be shot to hell if people knew they were there together.

Well, together was relative, it wasn't like he was sleeping with her or anything. She wanted that, he knew, and God knew he wanted that, but it wasn't right, not like this, not under these circumstances.

The attraction had been almost instantaneous when he first heard her voice, of course she looked damn good too. Now, after a couple of days of flirting over coffee and making innuendoes over forensics discussions and his stay at Harvard was going to end tomorrow.

Sara smiled ruefully as their fingers brushed when he took his drink. He was drunk, she could tell. She really didn't mind, drunk she could handle, and he hid it well. He took his drink and sipped it slowly, running his eyes across the scattered crowd of students and professors. He was leaving tomorrow. Surely he would want her to stay with him tonight, she thought.

He drank more deeply from his glass the ice cubes clinking softly. His eyes glided down her curves, in his mind's eye he was seeing his own hands following those curves up her sides to the straps of her dress, pushing them lightly off her delicate shoulders… She was a vision. She was intelligent. He blinked. She was _way_ damn too young. How old was she? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? He sighed as he realized his glass was empty. Sara saw it too.

"Boy that was fast. Do you want another?"

"N-no, I think I've had more than my limit."

"Yeah, I do too. You want to leave this bore-fest?"

Yes, he did, but not with her. If he left with her he would be tempted to touch her, to kiss her, to make her his…my girl….Christ Grissom why did you call her that, now she'll expect you to be there…

Sara mistook his silence as being a symptom of his inebriation and took him by the arm.

"Come on, I'll take you home."

----------------------------------

It was four and a half hour drive to Marina Del Ray from Las Vegas. She knew because she was on one of the lab computers looking it up on MapQuest. It was on the other side of Los Angeles, just south of Venice Beach, she could drive straight there, gas up the car on the way out of town and drive straight through.

And then what?

Sara looked at the driving directions on the computer screen. She'd looked up the name Grissom on the online yellow pages and found what she assumed was his mother's address. Now she had directions. She could go to him.

And then what?

_I thought I was your girl?_

She was at Harvard the first time she had heard Gil Grissom call her _his girl._ She liked it. She never liked possessive men before, but there was something chivalrous about Grissom, his use of possessive grammar marking an old-fashioned sensibility, not a need to control.

Her eyes focused beyond the top of the screen to the glass partition at the end of the room. Her own eyes reflected back to her. She was reminded of the mirror in her locker. The one she spoke to when no one else was around. The one she pretended had an open link to Grissom's brain when he seemed most distant.

"I don't have a drinking problem, I have me problem." Yeah. That sounds great. So neat, so rehearsed. He'll buy it, no doubt. But she never said it to him, only to a cold mirror.

Ecklie was yelling in the background. Grissom was likely going to be fired. She looked back down at the screen, the numbers floating like a mirage, tempting her closer. If she abandoned her job now, she'd likely be fired too.

And then what?

Grissom's cell phone was ringing. He'd looked at the caller ID. It was the crime lab. Which meant it was Conrad Ecklie. If it was Catherine she would have called from her cell phone, but Ecklie used the lab phones instead of eating up his cell minutes whenever he could.

Grissom didn't answer.

He sat on an empty dock on the marina hanging his feet over the cool water like he used to as a boy. There were too many boats in and out all day to fish here, but even as a child he liked to people-watch. He used to tell stories to himself making up names for the people he saw, making up adventures that they were going on, other people they were going to see.

Now he just sat, looking but not seeing as the sun set over the water.

---------------------------

Last year:

It was way past the end of her shift and well into the dayshift now. She really had no reason to be at work, but she was, as usual, and now she sat in the empty locker room Even Grissom had gone home. She looked up at her mirror and saw herself looking back, expectantly, patiently, with an expression of understanding that she often longed to see on his face. She could say it, she was capable of saying it…to him. She knew she was. Her councilor had told her she was. Speaking quietly to the small room she recited the soliloquy she had played and replayed in her mind since coming back from her suspension…

Drunk and angry is no way to go through life, trust me, I know. And it's not that I don't still have issues, Jesus Christ, it's not that. It's just…well, shit…I don't know what it is. I feel like I'm talking in circles, like I make no sense when I'm around you. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I sound that way, since I don't really understand myself when I'm around you. You have this way of turning me around, inside-out. I hate it, and sometimes I hate you for doing it. But only sometimes. This smacks of Hallmark kitsch, but the truth is, you've made me better. Perhaps not specifically what you've done or said, but your faith in me has made me better. Any other boss would have fired my ass a long time ago. All the complaints, and the insubordination…I know people in the lab thought I was some sort of psycho-bitch, and really they weren't completely wrong. Perhaps not firing me was to you no great sacrifice or gesture, but to me it was everything. Not just because I'm a workaholic who defines my personal self-worth via my professional accomplishments…issues, remember?...but because it meant that there was one person, who no matter how hard I pushed, no matter how savagely I turned against him, would be there, would not give up on me. You've been my rock…even more kitsch…even though you probably didn't even know you were.

The mirror was smudged and her whispered voice sounded flat in the cold room.

11 years ago, Harvard University.

Sara desperately tried to ignore the throbbing in her head. She was hung-over. This was not an uncommon condition for her, but she was internally berating herself for coming to class this way. She wouldn't be effective like this. Hangovers were distractions. This was only a lecture seminar, a four-hour presentation. Really all she had to do was show up, pretend to take notes, but she knew from experience that she was bad at faking it when she felt this wretched. So, there was really only one solution.

A strong dose of vodka in her bottle of Minute Made Orange Juice, she sipped conscious not to gulp, as she sat in the second row of the classroom.

The best cover for a hangover was not to get hung over, i.e., stay drunk. She could fake sober a lot better than she could fake not having a headache. This was something else she knew from experience.

This seminar was about criminalistics. It was elective for her, a physics major transfer from Berkeley. All she had to do was be there, pretend to care, and sip her drink.

Dr. Tallishey was at the podium giving an introduction.

"I am very happy to introduce our guest-lecturer for today. He is currently at the Las Vegas Crime Lab and previously served as the youngest coroner in L.A. county history…"

Great, Sara thought, a coroner, he sounds like a barrel of laughs.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Dr. Gil Grissom."

The applause from the students was the definition of a smattering.

The eminent Dr. Grissom made an undramatic entrance from the back of the classroom where he'd been standing, largely unnoticed by the students. Sara watched the Doctor approach the podium.

At least he's cute, she thought sipping her drink, her headache dissipating and a slow warmth moved into her chest. He was dressed in black slacks with matching jacket over a deep blue shirt with no tie. Sara was just close enough to notice his eyes were the same color as his shirt. Yeah…coroner or not, he was definitely hot.

His lecture was about bugs and decomposition, he was actually a very good lecturer. He infused his factual presentation with a steady current of dry humor and tasteful sarcasm, a far cry from the monotonous recitations of Dr. Tallishey. Under it all was the clear communication of this man's intense passion. This wasn't just a job for this Dr. Grissom, this was his life. This was what he lived to do.

During the course of the discussion Sara noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. That didn't mean he wasn't married, people in this field, she knew, often didn't wear jewelery for practical reasons.

A guy with this much passion, and that good looking, Sara thought as she finished her orange juice, he's gotta have someone. She found herself smiling at him furtively anyway as he gestured, describing the gestation of maggots. His eyes met hers for a fraction of a second. Sara, her headache now forgotten, decided right then she would find out where the eminent Doctor was staying.

--------------------------------

The gulls still screamed as the sun set over the marina, Gil's skin felt dry and he guessed that sitting in the sun for so many hours had probably left him sunburned. Out on the water an empty soda bottle bobbed in ripples that crashed against the pier. The bottle seemed to thrash, like a drowning man, fighting the sea.

There was a red butterfly in his mother's guestroom, a tiny, delicate creature he had caught when he was five years old. He learned how to preserve it and kept in his room, when he left his mother's house, he left it there, seeming to him like that was its home, where it belonged, and no matter where he went at least there would be a piece of him in that room.

As a child he talked to that butterfly, told it stories, and secrets. It was a small thing, a thing that a child could hold in his hands, a thing that could be cherished, a thing that could be crushed effortlessly. Sitting on the pier he took the butterfly out of his pocket and looked at it now.

Silently he traced the fragile wing with his finger. Seeing someone else in his mind's eye his thoughts led him into a mental conversation with the tiny, dead creature.

Do you ever feel like you're drowning? Do you ever feel like everyday is a constant struggle just to tread water, to keep your head above the waves? You're an ocean to me. You toss and shake and overwhelm me. I try to swim but I can't. I try to shout, but I'm too exhausted. I try to do anything to get away from you, to deny your ever-present power to envelop me. But it's like denying the sea, rail all you wish, it will never recede.

He heard the soft noise the butterfly made as it hit the water and slowly drifted before sinking below the surface.

It's like denying the sea.

The cell phone followed with a pronounced "ker-plop" sinking instantly.

It's like denying the sea.

I'm tired of swimming. I think I've come to hate the ocean.

TBC…..

Feedback please!

A/N: Chapter title from the Wham song: Careless Whispers.


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